Novum Et Insidiosum Territorium
by volley
Summary: Malcolm wakes up in sickbay... Coda to Terra Nova


Since this story deals with Malcolm's first time in sickbay, I wanted to call it "New Terrain" (or Territory); however, this being a coda to Terra Nova, which is Latin for New World, I changed the title into _Novum Territorium_. The _Insidiosum_, which I believe needs no translation, came as an afterthought; although probably, seen Malcolm's initial feelings abut a few things on board Enterprise (such as Captains acting rash and officers wanting to fraternise) it gives the _Territorium_ a wider meaning…

My entry for Sickbay Month. Hope you'll enjoy and review!

* * *

Ripples of sound gently rolled over his anesthetized consciousness, luring him from the cosy corner where he had found refuge, and where memory was not allowed to trespass. But more than the bits of indistinct noise, which he couldn't quite identify, it was the unpleasant smell of disinfectant assailing his nostrils that did the trick, steadying his groping mind and pointing it in the right direction, up towards the surface. When he finally cracked his eyes open, he feared he already knew what place this was.

Sickbay. Only a few weeks into their mission, and he had already landed in sickbay.

Brilliant.

Malcolm winced; not because of any pain – for apparently Phlox had taken care of that – but because of his last memories, which, with annoying clarity, were beginning to take form in his mind's eye. One image in particular made him cringe, of him blacking out with the Captain breaking his fall. Just the way he had always hoped to impress his Commanding Officer.

Well, if truth be told, his Commanding Officer was a mite bit responsible for what had happened, for his had been the idea of venturing into those dark tunnels after what they had thought was an alien. Not a very wise course of action, in Malcolm's humble opinion, but had Archer asked him? Of course not. The man hadn't had a moment's hesitation, and Malcolm, being his Armoury Officer, had been obliged to follow him – indeed, to go first.

Malcolm sighed. Every day that passed gave him a more exact measure of how impulsive said Commanding Officer was. Tough job he'd got himself, on this starship Enterprise; protecting _this_ Captain and his crew was going to be a bloody nightmare.

Things, in that labyrinth of tunnels, had gone awry fairly quickly. Malcolm had been wounded and captured. The fact that his captors, however, for all their strange looks, spoke English had reassured him. His wound hadn't been life-threatening, and those, he'd felt sure, were Humans; surely sooner or later the Captain would be back and things would get sorted. _Keep your shirt on Loo-tenant, they'll get ya out of there in no time._

Not quite.

Malcolm heaved a deep breath, which made him take in another potent waft of that strong antiseptic smell that turned his stomach. He had never particularly liked hospitals and the like. He'd had more than his share of them growing up, because of his fragile constitution.

An image of himself sitting with his parents in a memorable light-green waiting room came to mind – as did every time he found himself in medical environs – and carried with it its vague and unwelcome burden of unease. For some reason, out of the many, that particular time had imprinted itself on his mind. Once again Malcolm experienced, as he had then, a vice-like grip closing around his heart; emotions he wished he could ban forever once again held him hostage. Damn, but they seemed to catch up with him no matter how far he went to escape them. Even in space.

Ridiculous! – a part of him rebelled – He had done nothing to deserve feeling ashamed or inadequate… Except perhaps – another part countered – pretend to be fine and end up fainting in the Captain's arms.

Well, at least his father wasn't here, sitting right next to him but so distant he could have been miles away, his unsmiling sideway glances the only visible sign that he had anything to do with the child Malcolm Reed. Or the adult Malcolm Reed, for that matter, for the distance between them had become even more insurmountable with every passing year of non-communication.

At some point in life – he'd been still quite small, eight or ten – Malcolm had been convinced that what his father called a _fragile constitution_ actually only meant that he had inherited his mother's smaller frame – the irony of Mendel's Laws! – and wasn't as tall and strong as the old man had probably wanted his only son to be. He had applied himself diligently to make up for it by being extra good. But then there had been his allergies, and his aqua-phobia, and the demeaning label had suddenly seemed not only well-deserved but also impossible to atone for. The damage, in any case, had already been done. Years of being made to feel inadequate meant that he probably would go through life never quite able to rid himself of the feeling that he came with a somewhat defective case. Even now that he was an appreciated professional the thought always lurked in the back of his mind, ready to torment him every time he was less than perfect.

Blinking away the last remnants of drowsiness, Malcolm tried to chase away his grim considerations by taking a more observant look around. They had already been on their mission for a few weeks but, consciously or not, he had kept away from sickbay as much as possible, so the place was still rather new to him. He'd come briefly by that time Novakovich had re-materialised on the transporter pad with leaves and twigs embedded in his skin; but the situation, on and off board, had been too tense to spare a good look at the place.

What he now saw was quite a bit more pleasant than most of the medical rooms he had been to, with their cold tiles and pastel colours which never could quite manage to achieve with him what they were undoubtedly intended to do: induce a state of relaxation. These off-white and spacious surroundings were at least neutral enough that one wasn't led to think they were designed to do anything but just be agreeable. And everything was in perfect order, which always impressed him positively – he hated clutter.

The light colour-scheme surely made this place a welcome change from that dark and damp cave down on Terra Nova. Though if truth be told, after his capture, as he had lain in a corner and pressed on his wound to staunch the blood loss, Malcolm had been, strangely enough, more fascinated than worried. He had been intrigued by those people's language, how their terminology had subtly changed after just a few decades of isolation; by the uncomfortable life they seemed to be leading, so primitive, they who had flown this far on the wings of space-travel technology.

Archer, indeed, had arrived with the Doctor even sooner than Malcolm had expected; and had not liked it when Phlox had told him that it would be ok to postpone surgery for his injured Armoury Officer to a few hours later. No, Archer had not liked it one bit to leave him behind in those caves till the Novan woman had been treated. His Captain's concern had been embarrassing and heart-warming at the same time. But Malcolm could tell that the man was also eager to gain the colonists' trust, so he had put up the usual good front and reassured his C.O. that he'd be fine. After all, it was only a bloody bullet in the leg; he wasn't losing any more blood, and Phlox had medicated him.

A leg wound. Malcolm snorted softly. Come to think of it he wasn't the first crewmember to have been admitted to sickbay with a weapon's injury. The Captain had suffered a leg wound too, and on their very first mission. It was mildly comforting, especially the fact that the man had been back on his feet just a few hours later, thanks to the Denobulan's unortho--

Bloody hell.

Holding his breath, Malcolm grabbed the sheet with both hands and raised it, peeking under: nothing but an old-fashioned dressing. He slowly deflated, relieved that there was no strange, gelatinous creature stuck to his leg. The prospect had been shocking, and he belatedly realised his heart-rate had picked up speed; well, there was nothing he could do to stop the monitoring equipment from registering that. As was to be expected, its beeping made Doctor Phlox immediately materialise.

"How are you feeling, Lieutenant?" he asked jovially, approaching in that upbeat walk that made him look light in spite of his generous size.

"I'm fine, thank you," Malcolm replied without having to think. The word 'feeling' with a question mark at the end could only elicit one reply from a Reed.

Now, this physician was certainly unlike any doctor he had come across – and he had met quite a few. Aside from the more obvious differences, no other one had ever appeared to be so happy to have a patient to treat. Malcolm watched warily as the Denobulan's mouth stretched into its ridiculously wide smile, which was possibly the most alien thing about him, and began to push up to a sitting position.

"Ah, ah, ah," Phlox restrained him. "You may be feeling fine, but that doesn't warrant you to do more damage to yourself than what you already have," he said with a good-humoured chuckle.

"I didn't do any damage to myself, Doctor," Malcolm spat out, settling for leaning back on his elbows. "It was done to me. There is a difference."

Phlox gave an obliging, more composed smile. "Of course," he said distractedly as his eyes studied the readings on the monitor near the bio-bed, one hand cradling his chin and index finger bouncing repeatedly off it. "Still, you went through surgery, and need to be monitored for at least a day before you can get up and be released to your quarters," he went on to admonish. Ignoring Malcolm's groan of complaint he added, a touch more pensively, "Hmm, you are still running a slight temperature. It's not entirely unexpected – you were left in that cave for longer than I would have liked – but it might mean that you'll be my guest for an extra day or so."

"Splendid."

Malcolm refrained from pointing out that it had been his suggestion to leave him in that cave, and scrunched his eyes shut only to re-open them abruptly when he felt something against his neck and the sound of a hypospray being released.

"Painkiller." Phlox looked once again his blithe self. "You didn't think the absence of pain was normal, after extracting a bullet, did you, Mister Reed? I had to incise your leg for about six centimetres and--"

"Doctor," Malcolm cut him off, wincing. "Spare me, will you? I'm sure it's all very interesting, but I'm not up to it at the moment." That might not be the main reason why he'd rather do without a graphic description of his operation, but indeed he had begun to feel again the dull throbbing that, down in that cave, had been a prelude to pain.

A few hours after the Captain and the Doctor had left with that Novan man and his mother, Malcolm had found himself battling the chills of an obviously rising temperature and the discomfort of a limb that had started to ache, and all of a sudden the place had lost a lot of its fascination. How could people – Humans – have adapted to live like that, burrowing in underground tunnels like moles? All of a sudden he had fervently hoped the Captain would get him out of that damp hole soon.

"All right, then. Call me if you need anything," Phlox said, pulling Malcolm back from his reverie. "I'll be hovering around." He made to leave.

"Actually," Malcolm stopped him, "Could you please raise my bed before you go? The ceiling doesn't strike me as the most attractive feature of this room."

"Certainly!"

There was nothing short of delight in that single word. If the people from Denobula were all like that, it ought to be a jolly place – to keep away from.

"There. Better now?"

"Thank you, Doctor," Malcolm said gratefully, leaning back.

"My pleasure," Phlox chimed. "I'm going to inform the Captain that you're awake," he added, his voice drifting farther as he moved away. "He wanted to know."

Bloody wonderful. Why not make a ship-wide announcement, since we're at it. _Attention all hands, Lieutenant Reed has now recovered from his fainting spell and is ready to take visitors._

When the Captain had finally returned to the cave, Malcolm had painfully but resolutely pushed to his feet, determined not to let him go away without him this time. He had been quite light-headed by then, but had gritted his teeth and stubbornly managed to hobble his way back unaided. Showing weakness was definitely out of the question, being quite far up in the list of 'despicable behaviours to be avoided at all costs' so dear to generations of Reeds. And to his credit he had almost made it to the surface. Things had got blurred all of a sudden, taking him by surprise. The last he remembered was Archer grabbing him as everything had turned black.

Flipping perfect.

Perhaps he should close his eyes and pretend to be asleep.

Coward.

The doors of sickbay slid open with a swoosh that denoted a perfectly-tuned mechanism. Not a chance that they would get stuck, of course. Archer walked through them with a determined step, a warm smile immediately lighting his face when their eyes met. Feeling that he was expected to respond to it, Malcolm let the corners of his own mouth rise imperceptibly as he straightened his shoulders and his sheet.

With a nod to the Doctor, Archer came directly towards him.

Also Captain Archer was unlike any Captains Malcolm had come across, or been told about by his father. He had none of the authoritarian ways typical of a person in command. Malcolm half expected the man to be bringing him a lollipop, as someone would to comfort a child who had scraped his knee. He wasn't sure how to deal with a Captain of this sort, which made him even more uncomfortable. Archer's tendency to get close to his crew was out-of-place, as far as he was concerned. He was their Commanding Officer, not their counsellor. A Captain was there to give orders; and to do that, Malcolm was certain of it, he needed to keep his distance from his crew.

"Lieutenant," Archer greeted him, stopping just short of patting his shoulder.

"Good evening, Sir." The assessing green gaze made Malcolm suddenly self-conscious of his far from pristine aspect.

"It's good to have you back with us," the Captain said, immediately adding, with a lift of the eyebrows that looked suspiciously mocking, "In more than one way."

Malcolm smirked inwardly. Did the man have to add insult to injury? He swallowed. Sooner out, sooner over.

"Captain, let me apologise for the inconvenience I undoubtedly caused you by passing out down on the planet. I really thought that--"

"Inconvenience?" Archer cut him off with a frown now that seemed genuinely puzzled. "Sure, there was some inconvenience but the transporter took care of that; and the _inconvenience_ wasn't what worried me, Malcolm."

Malcolm opened his mouth to reply with something – he wasn't quite sure what – but the Captain went on, "I was already feeling pretty damn guilty that I had left you in that damp cave for hours, wounded and in the company of rather hostile people. When you suddenly collapsed you nearly gave me a heart attack; I feared the Doctor might have underestimated your injury."

"Nonsense, Captain!" Phlox called from his desk, some distance off. "It was only a little weakness due to low blood pressure."

Malcolm couldn't suppress a grimace. The W word always had that sort of effect on him. "It was regrettable, Sir," he said awkwardly, averting his gaze. Did the man even realise that this near-apology was the last thing that he had wanted, or expected, to hear? But perhaps he should have, with this Captain.

Two beats of silent scrutiny later Malcolm was already beginning to squirm; he licked his lips and said, "I was glad that my remaining down there helped you convince the Novans of our good faith."

"Yes, that was a relief," Archer agreed, the tension of the past day clear in his voice. "I am grateful for what you did, Lieutenant." The green eyes mellowed. "But the next time you're feeling faint, will you please stop to take a breather, or give me a little warning? I barely caught you, this time."

"Uhm, I'm rather hoping there won't be a next time, Sir," Malcolm mumbled.

The man he was sworn to defend shook his head, chuckling softly. "Yes, that too," he said.

He was like an open book. Malcolm could read a palette of emotions on his face and once again averted his eyes in discomfort. Shouldn't such transparency of feeling also be on the 'to be avoided at all costs' list? Especially for the officer in command? That's what he'd been ingrained to believe.

"Phlox, when can I have my Armoury Officer back?" Archer called in the direction of the Doctor. He sounded truly eager to have him back on duty, which Malcolm's ego found quite gratifying. There had also been concern in the voice, which touched something deeper in him.

"Oh, in two days at most, Captain, but probably sooner," came the Denobulan's reply.

"Good." Archer turned back. "I'll let you rest, then. Get well soon."

"Thank you, Captain," Malcolm said. To his surprise the words may well have tumbled out of his mouth automatically, but had come from the heart.

With a last, open smile Archer squeezed his shoulder and was gone.

Silence returned to Sickbay. Malcolm's head swarmed with fuzzy impressions and thoughts that were not very clear. It must be his fever. Yet he felt, for some reason, at peace with himself; strangely comfortable, considering that only a few minutes before he had been cringing in embarrassment. That too must be his fever, he mused as he relaxed back on his pillow, savouring the rare moment of full contentment.

The lights had been dimmed a little, and the smell of disinfectant was less strong – or more likely he was getting used to it. Malcolm watched Phlox pass by, a tray in his hands. It was laden with a variety of boxes and jars. The Doctor was humming something very softly under his breath, but stopped as he approached a row of cages and tanks. With practised movements, he began to feed his famous menagerie – a pinch of something here, a leaf there – eliciting a series of squeals and screeches, which he rewarded with a string of demonstrative words.

Blimey! This too! A bloody show of affection for a bunch of creatures which only cared to have their stomachs filled – provided they even had any such apparatus.

Malcolm restrained a groan, averting his gaze from the annoying sight. Well, if he had to stay in bed, at least let his EM containment field research benefit from this forced inactivity. He was considering asking the Doctor to have some padds brought to him when the doors swished open again, and the familiar figure of Commander Tucker appeared.

Now, if the Captain was relaxed, the ship's Chief Engineer, Commander Charles 'Trip' Tucker, was totally laid-back. Reed Senior would have been horrified to have someone like him under his command. But never mind the old man's rulebook: Tucker was one of the finest engineers Malcolm had ever met. He had a brilliant mind. Mind you, it hadn't saved him from becoming the first known human male to become pregnant, but it couldn't be argued that his brain was truly first-rate.

"Doc," the man greeted with his usual Southern charm, before making a beeline for the only occupied bed. "Hey, Malcolm," he called while he was still half way there, grinning friendly. "How're you doin'?"

"Fine, Commander, thank you."

"Trip. It's Trip, when you're off duty," was the predictable reproach. Grabbing a chair, Tucker swung it over, near the bio-bed, and sat astride it, the other way round. "Here," he said, handing over a padd.

Malcolm looked at it frozen in puzzlement for a beat. "Right, the report," he eventually said, snapping out of it and taking the object. "I suppose the Captain will need it soon; I'll get down to it right away."

Disbelieving blue eyes lifted to the ceiling and rolled to the side. "You've got to be kiddin'," Trip said deadpan. "No one's expectin' you to write a report when barely conscious, right after you were cut open, Malcolm."

"I'm not _barely conscious_, and I wasn't _cut open_," Malcolm grunted, pushing up on the heels of his hands to a straighter position to prove his point. "The cut is probably so small the Doctor could have just as well put a plaster on it." Well, six centimetres wasn't very large.

Phlox was just passing by, and both of them automatically looked at him. The Doctor's only comment, wisely, was a genial grin.

Rubbing a hand over his bristly jaw, Malcolm lowered his gaze back to his lap, spying the padd. "What is it, then?" he asked, curiosity clear in his voice.

"Somethin' to make your stay in sickbay less borin'," Tucker drawled, shrugging. "I figured you'd need some distraction."

Malcolm darted his frie-- _superior officer_ an intrigued look and picked the thing up, switching it on. "Night of the Living Dead… Close Encounters of the Third Kind… Aliens…" he read, scrolling the titles of a few movies that had been downloaded into it. He cleared his throat. "Uh, well, thank you… _Trip_."

Was that amusement flashing across the Engineer's intense blue gaze?

Tilting his head, Tucker sucked his cheeks in and pushed his lips out in an impish expression. "I thought you'd like them. They're vintage."

"That they certainly are," Malcolm agreed wryly. Good Lord, even John Wayne would have been a better choice.

"Gotta go. Travis and I've got an invitation to the Capt'n's Mess tonight."

The mention of food gave Malcolm a flashback of his last… staple – even in his mind he wasn't going to dignify that raw and rubbery stuff by calling it a _meal_. "Ah, well, I hope they serve you something tastier than undercooked 'digger meat'," he quipped, making his accent sharper than usual to underline how much he had enjoyed that treat.

Tucker laughed, a sound that was warm and infectious, and not at all contrived. "I'll ask Chef to send you somethin' to make up for that." He stood up and replaced the chair in one fluid movement. Turning back he said, suddenly quiet, "It's good to know you're ok."

A smile was still in place, but the eyes above it had softened, giving it a different air.

"Yes," Malcolm stuttered.

"By the way," Tucker called over his shoulder as he walked away, "You might want to take a look at what else is on that padd." Turning briefly at the doors, he flicked a mock salute, and with a 'see ya' he was gone.

Malcolm stared after him for a moment, even after the doors had closed, feeling the loss of something. The silence Trip Tucker left whenever he was gone from a room was always thicker.

Returning his attention to the padd., he checked its full contents: _Samuel Taylor Coleridge: Famous Poems_; _Joseph Conrad: Nostromo._ Malcolm's eyes narrowed. How on earth had Tucker guessed his literary tastes? Coleridge and Conrad happened to be two of his favourite authors. He scrolled further.

_And if you ever get tired of that old-fashioned British stuff, you might want to try an American masterpiece:_

He scrolled some more.

_The Adventures of Superman_

A groan this time did escape Malcolm's lips, which, though, curved up.

"Everything ok, Mister Reed?" Phlox called.

"Yes, Doctor. Thank you."

Malcolm scrolled up, intending to open Conrad's novel – he couldn't remember when he'd last read that; then on impulse scrolled back down and clicked on _Superman_. Let's just see how bad it gets, he mused. If he was to bug a certain Commander about it he needed to put arrows in his quiver.

A couple of minutes into his read he was giggling wryly to himself when the doors swished open again and Ensign Sato walked through, a cup in her hands.

"Lieutenant," she said, her face showing surprised relief. "I was expecting to find you groggy and in pain. It's good to see you're neither; in fact, that you're having a good time." She stopped near the bed and her intelligent dark eyes shifted to the padd. "May I ask what you're reading?"

"Well…" Malcolm faltered, not wanting to have Sato think he actually liked those silly comics. A blush began to creep up his cheeks. Damn it, _Superman_ might be bad but it wasn't anything improper; but of course that's exactly the impression he was now giving. "Just something Commander Tucker brought me, to provide some distraction," he finally uttered, in all too obvious awkwardness. Brilliant. Now he had damaged the reputation of a superior officer.

Sato's gaze twinkled and flicked away, while two endearing dimples formed at the sides of her mouth. "Ah." She cleared her throat, recovering a straighter mien. "I've brought you a cup of tea. I suppose you're allowed to drink it?"

"Yes, it's fine," Phlox called from wherever he was.

"Evening, Doctor," Sato greeted, turning to the general direction of the disembodied voice.

"Evening, Ensign."

"That was… very thoughtful of you," Malcolm managed. "Thank you." He took the cup from Hoshi's hands and brought it to his nose, closing his eyes as the delightful aroma finally overpowered the lingering smell of disinfectant. He took a sip. "Dark and no sugar, just the way I like it."

Hoshi smiled. "Yes, I asked around. Ensign Müller was able to help me."

Their gazes converged and diverged a couple of times, and silence stretched.

"Well, then. I'll leave you to your… _distracting_ read," Sato finally said, a hint of humour in her voice as her brow creased slightly.

"Erm, no," Malcolm sputtered. "It's only… well…"

"It's ok, Lieutenant." Hoshi sounded quite determined _not_ to know now, which made Malcolm cringe even more. "Get well soon." With that, she left.

Another groan escaped Malcolm's lips; and again Phlox called, "Everything ok, Mister Reed?"

"Yes, Doctor. Everything's just fine."

Malcolm laid back. Fine my…! Bloody embarrassing, rather. Not to mention confusing. Captains who virtually asked your forgiveness, Commanders who took time to find something you might like to read while confined to bed, Ensigns who went to the length of asking around if anyone knew how you liked your tea…

Against his own will and good judgement Malcolm was beginning to acknowledge the warmth that came with that undoubtedly disastrous style of running a ship. He must watch out. No fraternization with superior officers; _or_ junior officers. It was the primary rule, the corner stone of all military and paramilitary organisations. But he shouldn't worry, really. He had built tall enough walls around him, had learnt to put his emotions in a rigid and unbreakable plaster. What he should worry about, rather, was not to make it a habit to land in sickbay too often. That seemed to leave him far too vulnerable.

Setting his cup on the table beside him, he relaxed into his pillow and closed his eyes.

But after all, what was the likelihood that he'd end up severely injured and confined in sickbay?

This was a mission of exploration.

THE END


End file.
